


I Left My Sugar Standing In The Rain

by kaijuvenom



Series: Beautiful Disaster [1]
Category: Downton Abbey, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of conversion therapy, Sad Ending, crowley is a nanny for like two seconds, everyone shut up take your judgement pack it up and get it outta here, i dont know how to tag shut up im having a hard time, mentions of drug use, thats my only defense so shut your hell the fuck up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: Crowley learns about the practice of conversion therapy on gay men in England, and he sets about finding some way to stop it. He might be a demon, meant to make life a living Hell for humans, but he's never really done that, has he? And this time is no different, only he accidentally becomes a bit too attached to a human, which can only end in heartbreak for the both of them.





	I Left My Sugar Standing In The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I'll have you know that I started writing this because I was on a Downton Abbey kick and I realized I needed to give Thomas the happy ending he deserved, and I was halfway done with it before I realized that would be impossible. Considering the fact that Crowley is an immortal demon and Thomas is. human. So I royally fucked myself and ended up back at square one. Actually I considered not finishing this because it made me sad and it wasn't at all what I set out to write, but by that point it was already eight pages and I hadn't written anything in a supppppeeer long time, so I figured I had to publish it. Plus the first ten pages, I'm really proud of, and I enjoyed writing. But then the ending is bad and also sad. I really didn't want it to be sad, but I couldn't think of what else to do, so I guess it's back to the drawing board because I still want Thomas to be happy and I have yet to achieve that. Anyway, enjoy. Or at least, enjoy the majority of it, just ignore the ending, I'm not proud of it either.

It was the third consecutive week Thomas had gone into town to get injected with something leaving him feeling dizzy and weak in the name of curing himself. Despite the side effects of feeling like shit, he didn’t feel any different. Not mentally. He knew he was ill, or at least, he knew he wasn’t normal, and he didn’t know what to do about it anymore. He didn’t dare bring this up with the ‘doctor’ he was seeing for it, terrified his admittance that the treatment wasn’t working for him would only result in an increased dosage of the cocktail of drugs already being forced into his body.

On an opposite side of the universe, it was the three hundredth consecutive week Crowley had been congratulated for making humans suffer when he’d really had no part in it. He didn’t really pay attention to what he wrote in the reports anymore, or what the others were telling him, but one phrase stood out to him blatantly as a demon whose name he couldn’t place asked him about the absence of it mentioned in his report. _Conversion therapy._

“What now?” He asked, kicking his feet off the desk he had them propped up on, actually paying attention to their words now.

“The humans have taken to torturing homosexuals in order to ‘cure’ them, all in the name of God. I assume this is your doing?”

“I- wha-” How had he not heard about this? 

“It isn’t? Who should I give the bonus to, then?” The demon raised an eyebrow at him. 

“O-oh, it- sure, was me- absolutely- I- I have to- go-” Crowley was stumbling to get up, tripping over his feet before he managed to appear back in his flat where he could properly break down without any disturbances. He should go to Aziraphale, to ask if he could do something, _anything_ about this. These people were doing all this in the name of a god Aziraphale would swear up and down was all loving and kind, so clearly they were disillusioned. He could perform some miracle, to make them realize their interpretations of God were wrong, She would never want that. 

Something stopped him. Maybe it was the fear that Aziraphale and Heaven would agree with these evil people, and subsequently… Crowley would find out how the love of his life would really feel if Crowley told him his feelings. No- he couldn’t go to Aziraphale, not only would he risk worsening the matter, but he’d end up too caught up in his own melancholy to provide help to any of the humans suffering. 

He couldn’t focus on himself, not when there were humans being tortured for being in love, so he picked himself up off the floor where he’d collapsed and got himself ready to go. His hair was still long, not exactly up to the current century, but he liked it. The slicked back, short hair had never suited him, and besides, he’d always enjoyed the curls. His clothes, however, were perfectly in style, obviously. Although his tie was a little loose and the top button of his shirt undone, to give himself some flair. 

The problem, he soon realized, after a few seconds of wandering the streets of the town he’d been nearest to, was he had no clue where these treatments would be taking place. A doctor’s office seemed a good place to start looking. He approached the first office he came across, giving the secretary a smile before leaning in to speak to her.

“Afternoon, miss. I was wondering… if you could assist me with something?”

She greeted him kindly, nodding. “Of course, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

“Well.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice. He needed to commit to the role, be true to the era, even if he was perfectly content with screaming about his gayness up and down the streets. “I’ve heard about something called… conversion therapy?”

The secretary recoiled a little, and then regained her professional manner. Crowley almost told her she really didn’t need to do this, the gayness wasn’t contagious, but he refrained. Again, stay in character. “Of course, sir. One moment.” She pushed her chair back, opening up a desk drawer and rifling through some papers before pulling one out and handing it to Crowley. 

He took the pamphlet and stared at the text printed on the cover. ‘Choose your own path,’ it said, and he resisted the urge to make a disgusted face. He assumed of the paths available to choose, accepting yourself wasn’t an option. 

“He has availability six days a week, if you’d like, I could telephone him now and ask about the appointment and consultation times?”

Crowley shook his head hastily, glancing at the address on the back of the pamphlet before shoving it in his back pocket. “No need, miss. Thanks for your time.” He gave her a pleasant wave goodbye before stepping back outside and sighing. He didn’t exactly have a plan, he could cause this doctor an unfortunate accident, but it wouldn’t help all the other clinics doing this same ‘treatment’. But it would help someone, he supposed, and he had to start somewhere. He couldn’t help the horrible guilt seeping through him, the fear this may be his fault somehow, he’d influenced these people to think this way. He resisted the urge to sob, wishing he could be more like the other demons, who didn’t give two shits about humans, reveling in their suffering. 

Outside the building, a young man with dark hair was smoking a cigarette. He didn’t look well at all, dark circles under his eyes and shaking hands. Crowley looked away from him as he walked inside. 

“You’ll get lung cancer,” he muttered as he brushed past. 

“Get what now?” The man turned to Crowley, but he was already inside, which was a shame, because he’d like to stare at Crowley’s long, curly hair for an immeasurable amount of time. And maybe run his fingers through it slowly in a bar downtown. 

… No, this treatment certainly wasn’t working for him. 

Crowley was back outside a few minutes later, and Thomas was still there, still smoking his cigarette, and he kept sneaking subtle glances at him, which Crowley took forever to notice, but eventually did, and he stared right back from behind his shaded glasses. 

“Something I can help you with?” He asked, giving Thomas a polite smile. 

Thomas looked away from him hastily, discarding his cigarette on the ground and stomping it out with his heel. “Wondering what you’re doing here, is all.”

“Same as you, I’d assume,” Crowley answered, still with that pleasant and casual air about him as he took out the pamphlet he’d been given. 

“He doesn’t get in until after tea time usually.” Thomas jerked his head to the doctor’s building, crossing his arms. 

Crowley glanced at his pocket watch, and then back up at Thomas, studying him. “Then why would you be here so early?”

“Nerves, I suppose.”

“Is that why your hands are shaking?” 

Thomas looked down at his hands, then back up at Crowley. “Mind telling me your name before you start making assumptions about me?”

Crowley grinned and held out his hand to shake. “Anthony J. Crowley. Call me Crowley. And you are?”

Thomas hesitated before uncrossing his arms and shaking Crowley’s hand. “Thomas Barrow.” He stared into the dark frames of Crowley’s glasses, admiring the way they absorbed the light, like it was fading right into his skin, making him glow. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the words faded right out of his mouth. It took him a second before he realized he was still holding Crowley’s hand. His skin was smooth, he wouldn’t mind holding his hand for longer, and— this treatment _really_ wasn’t working. 

“Crowley?” He repeated after a moment of silence. “Not Crawley?”

“No. Certainly not. Why would I be- I be- no, it’s Crowley.” 

Thomas squinted at him, first in confusion, then in a bit more of realization. “The Crawley’s live up the hill. You aren’t from around here, should’ve known from your accent.”

“What’s wrong with my accent?” Crowley couldn’t help the offense seeping into his tone, being the dramatic way he was. 

Thomas laughed, actually laughed, shaking his head. “Not posh enough. I can see you’ve tried, but you’re too rough around the edges.” 

“Maybe you should teach me, then. You must be some manner of… lord, or prince… whatever they’re calling the aristocracy this century.” 

Thomas almost questioned that statement, but he was too busy being flattered by the assumption he could be considered something akin to a lord to worry about why this man didn’t know what century it was. “Hardly. An under-butler, for Lord Grantham.”

“God, and you dress up for that?” 

Another laugh, highly unusual. Or maybe it really wasn’t. Thomas had always been like this, closed off and silent until he found someone he got on with, then he threw himself at them, and more often than not, he was left knocked to the ground and trampled on, never caught, the feelings never reciprocated, but he never learned. “Of course I dress up, who do you think I am? I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

“Well, apparently I was. _Not posh enough._ I’ll show you posh,” Crowley responded, still overly offended. He hadn’t forgotten his job, when the doctor working at this clinic arrived back at his office, he’d likely meet a tragic end on one of his syringes. But now he was focused on Thomas Barrow, wanting to learn everything about him he could, it had been so long since he’d allowed himself to connect with a human, it was always such a short time, and it only ever ended up hurting Crowley more than he wanted it to. Every once in a while, he allowed himself to get attached, and in this time, with what was likely being done to this man, he needed someone to help him, he needed support. 

“And what do you mean?” Thomas asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“There’s a nice place down the road from here, music, drinking, and dancing, I’d like to take you, seeing we both have the time.” There wasn’t a nice place down the road—at least, not that Crowley knew of, but he made one appear a block or so away, right in the center of town. Thomas might’ve (again) questioned it if he weren’t too busy being flattered (again) by the fact that this absolutely gorgeous man wanted to take him out dancing.

“Well… seeing we both have the time.” 

“Lovely. Off we go then.” And off Crowley went, almost immediately, best to get as far away from that ‘doctor’ and his schemes, to make sure Thomas would forget all about it. Not the brag, but Crowley was an expert in making people forget things.

Thomas hurried after him, matching his pace after a few strides. They walked in silence until Crowley stopped at an inconspicuous-looking brick building with dark tinted windows and no sign outside of it. He’d never noticed it before, but then again- it didn’t exactly look noticeable. In fact, it looked empty, and pretty run down. There was a small sign in one of the windows in a language Thomas didn’t know, probably German. 

This specific building had been stolen right out of a little neighborhood in Berlin, Crowley used to frequent it. Although stolen wasn’t quite the appropriate word, because the same exact building with the same exact people in it and the same music playing at the same time still existed in Berlin, there was now a duplicate, which might seem confusing if you thought about it too hard, for example, were the people in the bar real? Were they clones? If they walked out the door, would they disappear? But if you don’t ask any of those questions, it isn’t at all confusing, and Crowley can go on making copies of gay bars in every small minded English town. 

As he opened his mouth to ask a question, Crowley took his arm, leading him to a side door of the building and inside, then down a flight of stairs immediately to the right. It was dark, clearly leading down to the basement of the building, lit with gas lamps. “Where are we-”

Crowley smiled, finally getting to the bottom of the stairs and stopping at a door, knocking exactly four times in a specific pattern, before it was opened. Loud jazz music echoed from inside, and Crowley tugged Thomas in, the door swinging shut behind him. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the low light, and when they did, it took another few seconds for Thomas to interpret the things he was seeing. 

The shock and almost… wonder on Thomas’ face when he’d processed he was standing in a gay bar was an expression Crowley couldn’t imagine could ever make him happier. He didn’t know, honestly, if he was doing the good or the bad thing here, the humans seemed to believe you’d be sent to Hell for being gay, but that didn’t mean anything, humans believed all sorts of ridiculous things. It was more likely than not he was doing a good thing here, helping someone accept themself, find a community they could feel comfortable in and be less alone— but he’d rather not think about that. He’d rather pretend he was doing the bad thing. He was a demon, after all. 

“Something to drink?” He asked, leading Thomas over to the bar and pulling a barstool out for him. 

“Whiskey, thanks.” He sat down, watching Crowley with curious eyes, in a way that made Crowley shift on his seat, feeling analyzed and questioned in a way no one had ever really made him feel before. 

Thomas gave a small echo of a thank you to the bartender, taking a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s. “Who are you?” 

The question made Crowley break the eye contact, staring down at his own drink. “Exactly who I said I was. Anthony J. Crowley.”

“What do you do?”

Crowley opened his mouth, and then shut it again, frowning. He didn’t have a planned answer. 

Thomas seemed to have expected that as an answer, and he smiled, setting his glass down and standing up again. He held out his hand. “Dance with me, then. No more questions.” It was probably better not to know too much, not to hear where this mysterious Crowley worked, lived, how he knew about this hidden bar. There was a reason it was hidden, after all. 

His offer to dance was immediately accepted, and Thomas couldn’t remember a time he’d felt— well, anything this good. He had never been one to dance much, not in front of anyone if he wanted them to take him seriously, but he enjoyed it. Crowley seemed to, as well, not that he knew exactly what he should be doing, but he was a fast learner. 

“What do they call this?” He asked, matching the way Thomas moved his feet, much faster than any dance he was used to, it was almost like running in place, or skipping maybe, complete with kicks and enthusiastic spinning. He quite enjoyed it.

“The Lindy Hop, it’s American.” 

“Always fighting the Americans, aren’t we,” Crowley muttered, grabbing Thomas’ hand and pulling him close, intertwining their fingers as they continued the dance. Crowley might insist he’d brought Thomas closer so he could more easily mirror his movements, but of course that wouldn’t be the reason.

“If you don’t like it, we can-”

“Absolutely not. This is the most fun I’ve had in a hundre- hundred… months.” God, he was hopelessly awful at being human. Thomas didn’t seem to notice his slip-up, or if he did, he didn’t think to question it.

“Where did you learn it?” Crowley asked, after a minute of silence as he got the rhythm down. 

“America,” Thomas answered, as if it were obvious. 

“You’ve been to America recently?”

“About two years ago, yes. Hell, what with prohibition, but the hidden places you had to travel to find a drink had excellent dances.”

A slower song played afterwards, and Crowley was holding Thomas close, close enough that he rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder, close enough he could hear Thomas whispering the words of the song, and it felt like a cruel joke, the Almighty playing some kind of ironic game with him. 

“ _Like a melody that lingers on, you seem to hold me, night and day._ ” 

The spun slowly through the room, and it was good there weren’t too many people at this time of day, considering neither of them were paying much attention to where they were going; Thomas too concerned with this being the happiest he’d probably ever been, and Crowley focused on the fact that he’d have to leave Thomas without an explanation at some point. 

“ _I’m alone, all alone, wondering where you are and how you are… and if you’re all alone, too.”_

It shouldn’t have felt painful, the thought of leaving someone Crowley had only just met, the thought that human lives passed by in the blink of an eye compared to his lifespan. It never felt painful, not anymore, it was always something he kept in mind. It was the reason he never had any pets, the reason he didn’t- he didn’t _do_ this, the reason the first time he’d adopted a child was the last time, because he couldn’t take it, how quickly it was over. 

The next song was slow again, and they somehow managed to move even closer, their arms locked around each other, holding tightly in a promise to never let go. It was something unique to communities like this, Crowley had learned. Those who felt excluded would cling to others like them, hold them close and protect them, knowing they would be protected and understood in exchange. There was an inherent need for feeling included and heard, and communities like this- they were necessary for marginalized groups. Crowley had a feeling Thomas wouldn’t want his pity, he didn’t want to be felt bad for, most humans didn’t like pity, so he didn’t voice any of those thoughts, and he continued spinning them around in silence. 

Thomas was the one to finally speak again, quite a while later, his head still resting on Crowley’s shoulder, one hand intertwined with his, and the other resting on his hip. It was comfortable, and he shifted the smallest amount, letting out a soft breath of air against Crowley’s ear. “Do you have a hotel room?”

He didn’t. But he solved the problem quick enough with a small jerk of wrist. A key to a hotel room just down the road dropped into his jacket pocket, and he answered Thomas’ question with a short nod. 

“We shouldn’t leave together,” Thomas said softly, and it was then Crowley realized how dangerous this situation really was, for Thomas, for anyone who was gay. “My job is already… hesitant at best. And the rumors will only grow. And I’m sure you don’t want a stain on your reputation, even if you aren’t from around here.” 

If Crowley had any less resilience, he would’ve given up on the whole ‘humans don’t like pity’ thing at that precise moment, but he instead cleared his throat, his hand which had been around Thomas’ shoulders moving down to the small of his back. “It’s the place just down the road from here. Green awnings, I think. Room twelve. I’ll leave first and you can meet me there in… ten, fifteen minutes or so. I’ll leave the door unlocked, so you won’t have to knock.” 

Thomas nodded, and a few seconds later, they separated from each other, and Crowley stared at him from behind his dark glasses before turning away, out the door and up the stairs, to see if he was right about the green awnings on the hotel. Turned out he had been. Being a supernatural being had its perks. 

His hotel room was simple, nothing to write home about, but there was a bed and a nightstand, and a working shower, so he wouldn’t complain about it. Better than what he could’ve gotten a hundred years ago, for certain. How he loved modern technology. As he waited for Thomas, he closed the curtains on the dusty window and turned on the light next to the bed. 

A creak of hinges a few minutes later signaled Thomas entering the room, and here in the brighter light of the room, Crowley could see him clearly, having not gotten a good look at him when they’d met outside. He was the kind of sophisticated, slicked-back hair and shirt collar buttoned so tight it might suffocate him if he took a deep breath type of person whom Crowley would usually go for, something about the put-together-ness of those types of people made Crowley want to mess them up in all sorts of ways. But then his face, his eyes, they didn’t suit that. 

He was the type to force a smile even though no one in the room would believe it, but no one would question if he was alright anyway. The type to say something nice for once and have it taken as a tease, someone who would stand up straight but avoid all kinds of eye contact. 

His eyes were dark, a sort of gray-blue, and betrayed him whenever he moved, or blinked, or had an amusing thought, showing every emotion he felt. Crowley found it all extraordinarily gorgeous, and it took Thomas clicking the lock on the door for him to realize he’d been staring. 

“Why do you keep those on?” Thomas asked, staring into Crowley’s eyes, or, into his sunglasses.

Bringing his hand up to the glasses, fiddling with them before finally slipping them off, Crowley sighed quietly. “I tend to get looks.” His bright yellow, cat-like eyes stared back at Thomas. 

Thomas smiled, moving close to Crowley, and his hand was on his cheek, and it was warm— and then his other hand was on Crowley’s back, and he was stepping forward, they were kissing, then, and—

And it wasn’t fast, or hurried, it was like they had all the time in the world, gentle and slow, taking long minutes before Crowley even moved to the bed, pulling Thomas on top of him. That was as far as they went, too, which was unusual for Crowley, but not unwelcome in the slightest, it was nice, to wrap yourself up in blankets and cling to someone, and stay there, listening to your heartbeat, your soft breathing, knowing you were safe here, with this person, safe with someone just like you, just as alone in the world. 

They didn’t say anything else, neither wanting to break the comfortable silence. Thomas stayed the night, he woke up early the next morning, Crowley having not fallen asleep at all, he hadn’t needed it. 

“Morning,” he muttered, sitting up and disentangling himself from Crowley’s long limbs. 

“Mmm…” Crowley took a moment to remove himself from the daze he was in, and then reached over and grabbed Thomas’ hand, pulling him back before he stood up completely, kissing him before letting go again.

His smile was something that made Crowley’s heart flutter around in his chest, which he didn’t much care for, but he ignored it. “I have to get to work, before too many of the others are up and notice I was gone all night.”

“Don’t want you getting into trouble,” Crowley agreed, nodding seriously, but then he was up, and his arms were wrapped around Thomas again, and it took several minutes before either of them managed to convince themselves Thomas actually had to leave. Crowley helped him make sure he was presentable, fixing his hair and smoothing out any wrinkles in his clothes. 

“Will you still be here?” Thomas asked, then cringed at his question. He hated how quickly he got attached. 

Crowley hesitated. He shouldn’t stay, there were so many conflicting feelings swirling through him, but- Thomas had looked so hopeful, and Crowley couldn’t help that he’d grown attached to this human. More than attached, he felt… he felt like he could really, truly help him. He didn’t want to leave, and- maybe some of the reasoning behind it _was_ selfish, but he couldn’t help his feelings. Unfortunately. If he could help his feelings, his existence probably would have been much easier. His thoughts flickered to Aziraphale briefly, but he immediately pushed them away. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale in decades, the… holy water incident had likely ruined whatever their relationship had been, or could have been. It was too much to think about, so he chose to lose his train of thought in Thomas’ eyes. 

“I will,” he said finally. “I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. But… I’ll be here for the time being.” 

Thomas nodded, and paused at the door, looking like he may say something else, but he didn’t, instead he simply nodded, opened the door, and was gone. 

He should’ve left, at that point, Crowley should have left that town and moved on as soon as Thomas had left for work. But he hadn’t, he’d stayed. He’d stayed for months, and every time he thought about leaving, he _couldn’t._ He didn’t know if it was love, if he was even capable of love, if he could even _say_ the word love without being smited by the Almighty. 

Everyone was wondering, mostly silently, what Thomas had been up to these past months, why he’d been so much more personable and kind. Miss Baxter seemed to know something, how she’d found out, no one asked, and _what_ she’d found out, everyone asked, but she never gave an answer. No one had the interest to snoop all too much, so Thomas was left alone, and his better moods were much appreciated. 

Crowley and Thomas snuck out whenever Thomas had free time, always alone in Crowley’s hotel room, or going to the mysterious German bar, never anywhere else, they refused to risk being seen together.

Of course, there was a rare time in which Thomas took Crowley to the cricket field on the estate, on a day when the abbey was mostly empty, the family having gone on a hunting trip, with only Tom Branson staying and most of the servants off for the day at least.

The only problem with this plan was the astounding fact that Crowley didn’t know a fucking thing about cricket. He hadn’t played a sport since the Romans gave up competing in the olympics naked, and even then he’d really only ever been a spectator. Still, Thomas was determined to teach him, it wasn’t that hard, really. 

It turned out to be hard. This was partially due to Crowley becoming increasingly distracted by the way Thomas was standing behind him and adjusting his grip on the cricket bat with his arms around him. It was actually mostly because of that. The attempt at teaching Crowley to play cricket was nearly immediately abandoned in favor of making out in the grass.

It was nearly a full year before things started to go downhill. It had taken a few ‘suggested’ retirements for a few members of the help at Downton, but Crowley had managed to convince Lord and Lady Grantham to take him on as a nanny for part time. He’d always liked kids, and it gave him more opportunities to see Thomas, even if they had to be even more careful while at work. Crowley had been renting out a cottage a little ways down the road from where Thomas worked and lived, it wasn’t much, but it had a garden, and enough room for the few belongings he had. He was oddly happy. It was mundane, in an incredibly human sort of way, and it was satisfying, in a way that Crowley never really thought he’d get to feel. And he shouldn’t have thought he was allowed to feel that way, because Crowley was allowing himself to get too comfortable in this pleasant life. 

“Hello, Marigold,” Crowley said pleasantly, bending down to give the young girl a hug before he gave Thomas a soft smile. “Where are the others?” 

“Sybie is sick,” Marigold answered. “And George went with aunt Mary to… to…” 

“The cobbler’s,” Thomas finished for her. “And Sybie has a cold, she’ll be alright within the week.”

“Only she doesn’t feel cold,” Marigold added, and Crowley laughed gently, ruffling her hair and picking her up as he stood.

“Well, then. What shall we do today, Lady Marigold?” He asked, spinning her around as she giggled, before setting her back down.

“Gardening! I want to pick all sorts of flowers for mama, and Mister Barrow should come with us.” She looked toward Thomas hopefully, who shook his head slightly.

“Mister Barrow has to get back to work, but it’ll be alright. I’ll help you pick out the most lovely flowers for Lady Edith, how about that?”Crowley gave Thomas a smile before leaving, and Marigold waved goodbye. 

They were outside in the garden, Marigold a little ways away and deeply focused on picking out the prettiest flowers she could find, when the ground opened up and swallowed Crowley.

A note about Heaven and Hell; time doesn’t pass the same way as it does on Earth, or maybe it does, but the fact that immortal beings are immortal, and surrounded by other immortal beings, makes it impossible to tell how much time has really passed. That was the last time Crowley ever saw Thomas.

The first few days were lived in denial, that Crowley hadn’t just up and vanished, he _couldn’t_ have, _wouldn’t_ have, and when the number of days without hearing a word from him increased, growing into months, it turned from denial to anger. Thomas took out that anger the same way he had before he’d known Crowley, by hurting other people, becoming distant and unpleasant. He didn’t know what else to do, it wasn’t something he could simply talk about. 

The anger morphed into vague apathy, a pessimistic look at the future he knew he didn’t have. A happy ending for him wasn’t possible, and he hated himself for thinking it was, even for just a second, it only made the inevitability of being alone worse. 

**Author's Note:**

> https://open.spotify.com/track/5YNTItCcDstM0Xj1MjJ5R2?si=iki2xvNGT1m50cBhtMgmcw I Left My Sugar Standing In The Rain   
> https://open.spotify.com/track/4maDMIbDtUvC4IueYicTbm?si=VKYPTjCDQKC_VN4cmI7K5Q All Alone
> 
> so uuuuh if you've seen downton abbey, you can tell where this story fits into the canon, it ends at the beginning-ish of season six, and everything that happens in season six would pretty much happen the same exact way.


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